


Itchin' on a Photograph

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cars, Cas's Pimpmobile, Classic Cars, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluffy Smut Tho, M/M, Making Out, Photographer Dean, Reuniting, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 10:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11484450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: The car is as beautiful as he remembers. And not just because of its long, rectangular built swathed in a tan gold pigment that does no justice under the garage light, but because of the dents and scratches to the hood, the left side mirror, the back right window, and the trunk.This is the reason he drives so far to see these vehicles, sometimes for a second time. It’s not for the condition or the infrequency of them; it’s for the story they have to tell. That’s what he captures. And Cas’s car happens to be among his favorite stories to tell.





	Itchin' on a Photograph

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my recent trip to my local art museum, where they had a whole section dedicated to pictures of cars dating all the way back to the '70s.

Itchin’ on a Photograph 

_Title inspired by the Grouplove song_

Cars take on various personas.

To teens, it's the first of many steps into adulthood, making them very attractive and desirable. To parents, it marks the end of dependence, making them unappealing, and especially dreaded when it comes to driving lessons. To others, they represent wealth or status. Some people drive mint condition Maserati’s. Some people drive weather-baked Ford pickups. That's the neat thing about cars is no matter what age, race, religion, gender identity or sexual orientation someone falls under, if they drive a nice car, it's like the world goes temporarily blind to bigotry to check out the new rims and the sleek design.

It's none of these reasons Dean loves cars, however. Although he loves flashy cars just like everyone else, being the proud, longtime owner of a '67 Chevy Impala, it's not the sole reason he loves them.

He loves them because they're his muse.

Dean's a photographer. He's been all over the world with his hobby, from Mexico to Japan, Germany, Spain, England, and back to the United States. All to photograph automobiles.

His greatest accomplishments are not only his commercial expression, but his artistic as well. Some days, he'll drive cross country just to get a nice shot of an abandoned, broken down Volkswagen found on the side of the road. Other days, all it takes it certain parts of a car lying around in some rundown junkyard in Montana. Dean lets his muse guide him, like the muse itself is an object comprised of four wheels and an engine.

Tonight, it's taking him to a '78 Continental Mark V in Pontiac, Illinois - a rarer model of the total ten generations of the car. The man getting it ready for him, who was more than happy to oblige when he was offered five whole figures, says it's still fully functioning since the last time Dean saw it back in ‘14, which is impressive, considering the age and mileage on it. Then again, Dean's car is eleven years older, and it's still fully functioning, so it's hard to judge a car by what's under its hood.

"Mr. Novak?" he poses to the man behind the screen door, fanning himself with the rolled up Wednesday crossword he bought to help beat traffic fever and has yet to finish from the Gas N' Sip in Kansas City. The humidity is much higher than it is in Lawrence, sticking to him like the cat beside the shrouded figure on the welcome mat, kneading into the fabric.

The man opens the door and steps outside with a smirk that crinkles his eyes, “Dean, please, I remember you.”

Dean snaps back the newsprint, because he definitely won't need it now that Cas has cranked up the temperature just bit by having that face. He's tanner than Dean remembers, making his eyes, a rich sapphire, and his lips, large and pink and slightly cracked, pop. His five o'clock shadow is easily visible too, second messiest to his dark brown hair.

After gaining some composure, Dean leans forward to hug him. Cas leans forward too until their bodies collide. He feels Cas bury his head into the crook of his neck where his flannel doesn’t cover, like he’s branding his smile on Dean’s skin. Dean takes the opportunity to drink in his scent, which is just as he suspected. After three years, he still smells like aftershave and peaches from the giant tree in his backyard.

Neither men say anything for a moment when they pull back. Dean pipes up, "So, the car?"

"Right," laughs Cas, guiding Dean to the garage.

The car is as beautiful as he remembers. And not just because of its long, rectangular built swathed in a tan gold pigment that does no justice under the garage light, but because of the dents and scratches to the hood, the left side mirror, the back right window, and the trunk.

This is the reason he drives so far to see these vehicles, sometimes for a second time. It’s not for the condition or the infrequency of them; it’s for the story they have to tell. That’s what he captures. And Cas’s car happens to be among his favorite stories to tell.

“Need me to pull it into the driveway?”

Dean looks up, grinning. “Sure. Yeah, that would be great.”

Dean uses the time Cas pulls the car out to shuffle around in his own car for his equipment. Over the years, he’s collected a lot of neat gadgets to help clean and correct the photos, but Dean only uses those features shooting for commercial. What he hopes to capture today are photographs that don’t need to be modified to fit the image he’s going for, which is raw and unchallenged.

“Well,” Cas says, clapping his hands together after he steps out of the car, “she’s all yours.”

Dean stops him with a hand in front of his chest. “Whoa, whoa, where do you think you’re going?”

“I mean, I don’t want to disturb you while you work…”

“Cas, we haven’t seen each other in three years,” he says. “Stick around. We’ll catch up.”

Cas smiles again and turns around to close the car door, “Okay. Do you want anything to drink? I bought a six pack of Corona the other day.”

“You drink beer now?”

“No.”

Dean’s lips curve into a shy smile. “That sounds good. Thank you.”

It’s probably an amusing sight to see, Dean taking pictures, since he contorts his body every way not even known to man himself to get the perfect shot. So when Cas returns with his beer, he’s treated to the sight of Dean on his knees, legs spread, and ass sticking straight out. “Nothing’s changed,” Cas jokes.

Dean cranes his head at that with a blush spreading even wider across his lightly freckled cheeks. “So, um…” He pauses, notably flustered. He turns back to the car, hoping to gain some inspiration to speak again, “You’re still here, in Pontiac.”

“That’s correct,” Cas says.

“What happened to Chicago?”

“Nothing,” replies Cas, his smile flatlining.

Dean turns around, setting his camera aside. “Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s alright,” Cas says, “it was my choice not to take the job.”

Dean’s mouth parts in surprise. “Wait. You _got_ the job?”

Cas nods. “I told them I would think about it before I declined the offer.”

“Cas, I don’t understand,” says Dean, shaking his head, “You’ve been going for that job since I met you.”

“I couldn’t accept it,” Cas says, “It just didn’t feel right.”

Suddenly the humidity doesn’t seem so intense as Cas’s gaze on Dean.

He settles on a nod, not bothering to probe further than he has to.

“What about you? Still raising Hell in Lawrence?”

Dean grins. “You know it. I recently got invited on an all-expense paid trip to Australia. They have a car show in August that they need a photographer for. A bunch of big names are gonna be there, Brian Johnson, Paul McCartney, Rick Springfield.”

It’s Cas’s turn for his mouth to drop, “Holy shit, that’s amazing. When do you leave?”

“I don’t,” Dean says, shrugging. “Didn’t feel right, either.”

Cas nods too, but he doesn’t let Dean’s eyes go. And if Dean’s being honest, he doesn’t want him to.

It’s probably how he finds himself standing up as Cas strides towards him. Then, Cas sandwiches him between the car.

Dean doesn’t object. Well, except one part of him, which is growing harder every second Cas takes to run his long, slender hands from Dean’s denim-clad hips, up his sides, chest, and neck before settling there. Dean’s breath hitches when Cas presses their bodies impossibly closer, feeling Cas’s own hardness against his.

The friction is bittersweet, that much is evident by the moan Cas quashes on Dean’s mouth. What’s even more bittersweet is the kiss itself: slow, sloppy, and slick. Dean kisses back with everything in him, even drags his tongue across the seam of Cas’s bottom lip like a dry envelope, except when the letter gets returned to sender, he doesn’t complain one bit.

He can’t remember the last time he’s had sex, but he remembers the last time he made love. January 14, 2014.

It was in the backseat of a ’78 Continental Mark V.

“Wait,” Dean says after breaking from what’s about to become far more than just a make out session. Cas does that head tilt when he’s confused before Dean leans down to pick up his camera. “Get in the backseat.”

A wicked smile crosses Cas’s face. He wastes no time when Dean opens the door for him.

Once they’re inside, Dean sets the camera on the backboard and dives in to kiss Cas again, whose body consumes the length of the backseat. This time, however, instead of licking his lips, he sucks on them. Cas whimpers as best he can before Dean swallows the noise.

Dean pulls back, sitting up to straddle Cas’s waist, grabs the camera, and snaps a photo. When he presses playback, he sees the image of Cas on the edge of the backseat, blue eyes glazed over with lust at the camera, mouth parted to reveal his swollen lips.

“Beautiful,” Dean breathes, admiring his work, to which Cas grins shyly. He sets the camera down and goes for Cas again. This time, he spreads his hands across Cas’s chest, pushing away his maroon hoodie. Cas gets the message, tossing the jacket on the floorboard. Next is his shirt to reveal his lean torso. His left peck twitches in interest, rippling his darkened nipple and the tanned skin for miles above it.

Dean sucks a hickey there. Snaps a picture.

Then sucks another one, in the crease of his peck, just below his newly hardened nipple. Snaps another.

He continues leaving hickeys along the trail of Cas’s body, eliciting a sultry sigh from Cas each time until he reaches Cas’s abdomen, just above the waistband of his boxers peeking out from underneath his black pants—for that he receives a couple hissed curse words.

Dean sits up to admire his creation. Some hickeys are smaller than others, others are more pronounced. But they all show up well on his camera. Dean can’t help but marvel at that particular photo. With the way the moonlight drapes over Cas’s half-naked figure, Cas’s body looks like the Milky Way, and each love bite represents a planet in the solar system, like Cas is the universe.

Maybe he is.

“I love you.”

Cas’s mouth parts slow—a black hole Dean’s tempted to be sucked right back into again. “What?”

That’s when Dean realizes what came out of his mouth. It’s the one thing that can’t be captured in a single photograph, and even if it could, it can’t be replicated. Cas’s expression right now, that’s a one-time reaction.

Dean sets his camera down as Cas pulls him in for a long, hard kiss.

 

 


End file.
